Above the Bay of Angels: A Novel

by Rhys Bowen

  He picked up a paper from his desk. “Your letter of reference is commendable,” he said. “It seems you were prized at Lady Sowerby’s.”

  I was wondering what reason I could come up with for wanting to leave Lady Sowerby when he went on. “The housekeeper says you are honest, sober and willing to learn.”

  “Yes, sir. I am,” I replied, while a voice whispered that I was not being honest at this moment. I almost gave in and confessed to my deception, but he was already continuing. “It seems that Lady Sowerby is of advanced years and is closing up her household to live with her son, is that correct?”

  “So I understand, sir,” I replied.

  “And what made you decide to come all the way to London?”

  “There is nothing to hold me in Yorkshire, and who wouldn’t want to jump at the chance to serve Her Majesty?” I said.

  He actually smiled. “I think you will do well here, Miss Barton, but first I have to introduce you to our maître de cuisine, Mr Angelo Romano. He is most particular about who works under him, down to the lowliest scullery maid. Allow me to escort you to the kitchens.”

  We went down the stairs, along a tiled hallway this time, and opened a swing door on to a vast kitchen. I think I swallowed back a gasp. All along one wall, rows of gleaming copper pots hung on hooks, in ascending size from one pint to several gallons. Beneath them was a row of stoves on which stew pots were bubbling, sending out an enticing aroma of herbs. I noted that the stoves were mostly modern gas burners, with a couple of old-fashioned coal-fired ranges for good measure. Around the room, scrubbed pine tables were arranged, and at each of these cooks were at work. A whole army of cooks, it seemed, dressed all in white, some in tall hats, others in caps, and all busy chopping piles of vegetables or mixing things in bowls. Actually, as I examined them more closely, I noticed nearly all of them were male. Only a couple of older women amongst them. No other young girls.

  The master hesitated at the door. “Mr Angelo, might you be free for a moment?” he asked.

  A man with a curled black moustache and a most superior expression came over to us. He wore an immaculate uniform and a toque on his head. From the way he walked, I could tell he thought a lot of himself. “What is it, Master? As you can see, we’re up to our eyes at the moment.”

  I had expected an Italian accent, but he sounded like any other Londoner.

  “This young lady has applied to be an under-cook,” the master said. “Her references seem satisfactory, and she has a pleasant manner, but of course the final say is up to you.”

  Black Moustache was looking me up and down as if I were an unsavoury piece of meat. “You know my feelings about having a young woman in the kitchen.”

  “I do, but we also know Her Majesty’s sentiments, don’t we? And it is not up to us to dispute the wishes of our employer.”

  Black Moustache hadn’t taken his eyes off me for a second. “So what cooking experience do you have, young woman?” he asked.

  “Only plain English cooking, sir,” I replied. “And of course I’ve only been allowed to assist, not compose the dishes myself. But I am familiar with most cooking methods.”

  “You have experience with game? Her Majesty is most fond of game.”

  “I’ve worked with pheasant, sir. And squab.”

  “And sauces?”

  “I can make a smooth white sauce, sir, and a brown sauce . . .”

  “White sauce?” He was looking down his nose at me. “To what kind of white sauce are you referring? Velouté? Béchamel? Supreme? Pascaline? Ravigote?”

  “I’m afraid that I am not familiar with foreign terms. The cook who taught me was adamant that English food was as good as any and she wasn’t going to cook any ‘foreign muck,’ as she called it.”

  As I said the words, I wished I could un-say them. Angelo was obviously an Italian name, although I detected no trace of an accent in his speech. Actually, I thought I detected a hint of cockney, and there was certainly a smile at the corners of his lips.

  “I think I might be inclined to agree with you. Nothing is superior to a first-class joint of roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, but Her Majesty likes her food to be fancy. Not necessarily foreign, but pleasing and tantalizing to the eye, as well as good to taste. Some of our dishes take all day to prepare.” He paused, and sucked through his teeth for a long moment before he asked, “What would you say was your forte?”

  “I’m told I have a light hand with pastry, sir.”

  “We have Mr Roland, who is our pastry chef and takes care of the items for the queen’s tea and any pastry items on the pudding menu. Her Majesty is very fond of her tea—and the cakes and scones that go with it. Never misses her tea, no matter where she is or what she is doing. But you may be called upon to make a meat pie for the servants’ dining room.”

  “Oh yes, sir. I can make a good meat pie.”

  “That remains to be seen,” he said, “but I can tell you’re willing and eager to learn, and you’ve a nice manner to you, so I think we’ll give you a trial. When can you start?”

  “Since my employer is closing down her household, I could start as early as next week, if that’s convenient, sir.”

  “Splendid,” he said. “You understand that this will not be glamorous work, don’t you? Occasionally we have to cater for state banquets, and then it’s fancy food and all hands on deck. But most of the time you’ll be chopping vegetables and preparing meals for the staff, and you will be at the bottom rung of our ladder here. You will take orders from me and from the other cooks who are older and wiser than you.”

  “I understand that, sir.”

  He gave me a brief smile and a nod. “I’ll hand her back to you, Master. I have six pheasants waiting to be boned.”

  I followed the master of the household back to his office.

  “Mr Angelo is a firm taskmaster, you will find. He expects hard work and perfection all the time.” He turned back to address me. “But you could not learn more from any chef in the country.”

  “He is from Italy?” I asked. “He doesn’t seem to have a foreign accent.”

  “No, as English as you or I. London born and bred. His ancestors came from that country, several generations ago. Her Majesty selected him because she had previously had another chef with an Italian last name, of whom she was very fond. And that has given her the impression that all Italians are good cooks.”

  He opened the door to his office and ushered me inside, waiting until he had taken up position at his desk before addressing me again. “Your starting wage will be fifteen shillings a week, all found,” he said. “You will be provided with your uniform and laundry service, as well as your board and lodging.” He looked up, waiting for me to say something.

  “Thank you, sir. That sounds most satisfactory,” I said, although in truth it wasn’t much more than I had been making at Mrs Tilley’s. But the thought struck me that at least the money would now be my own, not going to my father and sister. I’d be able to save for my future, with precious little to spend it on.

  “And you will be required to sign documents of confidentiality, Miss Barton. Nothing that happens inside these walls is to be discussed with anyone, not even your closest friends. Nothing is to be removed from the palace, not even extra food. Is that clear?”

  I nodded. “Yes, Master.”

  “And walking out with a young man is frowned upon.”

  “I have no young man, sir,” I said, “but I couldn’t help noticing that there are no other young women in the kitchen.”

  “That is correct. Until recently, Her Majesty’s kitchen was nearly exclusively composed of male chefs. But Her Majesty is also forward-looking. She feels that, with the new century approaching, we should create more opportunities for young women—since she herself has proved what a young woman can achieve, given the chance.”

  I wanted to say that not many of us have the chance to inherit a monarchy, but stayed wisely silent.

  He went on, “I have to confess that
I do not share her enthusiasm. In my experience, it is a waste of training to take on young women as they have a habit of going off and getting married.”

  “I have no intention of doing that for a long while, sir. I am passionate about becoming a better cook.”

  He actually nodded with approval. “Splendid. I can see we chose well. Then if you’ll just sign here . . .” He produced a document, a pen and inkwell. I dipped, prayed it wouldn’t blot and hesitated before I remembered to sign Helen Barton.

  Then he held out his hand. “Welcome to Her Majesty’s service, Miss Barton.”

  CHAPTER 3

  I came out of there in a daze. I started to walk across St James’s Park. Faster and faster I walked, while my mind tried to come to terms with what had just happened. I had been raised by my mother to be truthful and to always behave in a way that brought credit to my family. And yet I had just obtained a position by lying. Could I live with myself?

  Then I was reminded that my family hadn’t exactly done much for me. My father had sold me into near slavery, humiliated me in the worst possible way. My sister would not make use of the precious education she had been given, thanks to my back-breaking work. I owed nothing to nobody. I was a free woman, taking my life into my own hands for the first time. I was now an under-cook at Buckingham Palace. My future looked bright. I’d work hard, and maybe after a year or so, I’d have enough saved up to go to America, where I would be hired immediately as someone who had cooked for royalty. Or I’d even open my own restaurant one day. The possibilities seemed endless. Perhaps I really had been born with my father’s optimism after all. It was just that those four years with Mrs Tilley had almost crushed it.

  As soon as I reached Mrs Tilley’s house, I rushed up to my room, took out my writing paper, pen and inkwell, and began to write the letter to Sowerby Hall. I had composed it many times in my mind on the Underground journey home.

  To whom it may concern:

  I am sorry to inform you that I witnessed a tragic accident in London this afternoon. A young woman was struck and killed by a speeding omnibus. I helped to gather her possessions from the street and found an envelope, addressed to a Miss Helen Barton. So I can only conclude that this is the woman’s name. I thought I should write to you in case the London police do not see fit to inform you of her death, and she has any next of kin who would want to know of her fate . . .

  Then I added, I have also informed the master of the household at Buckingham Palace of her tragic death. That should surely stop anyone in Yorkshire from having a need to contact the palace. I signed it, A well-wisher. I put it into an envelope, licked it shut and I went out again, straight to the nearest pillar box, where I posted it. I was still feeling most unsettled when I came back and could hardly eat a morsel of the delicious rabbit pie that Cook had prepared.

  “Stuffed yourself with tea at a café, I’ve no doubt,” Cook commented, and I didn’t refute this. I went up to my room as soon as I had helped clear away supper and stood, staring out of my attic window at the skyline of chimney pots. I still couldn’t quite believe what I had done. All I knew was that I would finally be able to escape.

  It was with great satisfaction that I presented myself to Mrs Tilley the next morning and told her that I would be leaving at the end of the week. Her plucked eyebrows rose in astonishment.

  “Going? Walking out on me after all I’ve done for you?”

  “That’s right.” I didn’t say, “Yes, ma’am.”

  “But where do you think you’re going? What person of quality would take you on without a reference, I’d like to know?”

  I would love to have told her that I’d be working at the palace. I so wanted to tell her that, but I knew that the spiteful old witch would be likely to write to the palace with false complaints about me. So I had come up with a perfect excuse on the Underground ride home.

  “I won’t need to work any longer,” I said. “My sister is about to marry well, and I’ve been invited to go and live with her husband’s family.”

  This was partly true. Louisa had invited me to live with them. The offer was still open. It’s just that I had declined it. Maybe the second falsehood is not as hard as the first. I saw Mrs Tilley blink a couple of times. Then she said, “Well, lucky for some, isn’t it? And since you’ve fallen on your feet, I don’t suppose you’ll be needing your last pay packet, will you?”

  “I most certainly will expect to be paid money I’ve earned,” I said, “and I’m sure my sister’s husband will want to make sure that I get what’s due to me. His family is not without influence, you know.”

  Those piggy little eyes blinked rapidly again. She got up and strode over to her purse. “Take it and get out. Ungrateful girl,” she said and flung the coins at me. I wanted to be dignified enough not to pick them up, but I bent and retrieved them before making my exit. I found that I was shaking and had to have a glass of water in the kitchen. I couldn’t wait for the end of the week.

  My next task was to meet with my sister. She wanted to close up the flat, dispose of the contents and move in with her future in-laws. We stood together in that damp and depressing living room while slanted evening sunlight shone on the threadbare rug through grimy windows.

  “Oh, Sissy, I feel so badly for you,” she said. “I will be leading a life of happiness and luxury while you are still slaving away for that monster. Will you not change your mind and come to live with us?” She took my hand. “You could resume your studies. You always were the bright one. You know how much the teachers thought of you.”

  I have to confess I had been tempted when she had brought this up before. But I wasn’t about to be beholden to anyone. And I had come to realize I had a passion for cooking. So I had to invent another lie—only a half-truth this time.

  “You are very sweet,” I said, “but I’ve managed to find a better job, away from that awful household.”

  “You have? That’s good news. Where is it?”

  “I can’t tell you where it is yet.”

  “You can’t tell me where it is?” Her sweet face clouded over. “Bella, is it somewhere shady? You are not becoming a dance hall girl, are you? Or even worse?”

  I had to laugh at the thought of me becoming a lady of the night. “No, no. It’s quite respectable, I promise you.”

  “Then why can’t you tell me?”

  I frowned. Should I just lie to her and say that I was going abroad? But then I’d never see her again, and she was the only family I had. I’d have to think this one out and come up with a way I could explain that I was now Helen Barton.

  “We haven’t quite sorted out the details of my position yet,” I said.

  She squeezed my hands. “You won’t go too far away, will you? I’ll miss you so much. You are my only relative in the world.”

  “Don’t worry. I will come to visit you on my days off.” I smiled at the worried frown on her face and realized that perhaps she might be having some reservations about marrying and moving in with a strange family. “And when you have children, I’ll be an adoring aunt.”

  The worried look deepened. “I’m not so sure about that side of things.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “One hears such awful rumours. I have let Billy kiss me, and that was actually rather nice, but beyond that . . .”

  “I know little more than you, I’m afraid,” I confessed. “But I’m sure you’ll come to enjoy it with someone you love. Mother and Father were in love all their lives until he broke her heart, weren’t they?”

  “But what about childbirth?” She was still whispering, even though we were alone. “Women die all the time, don’t they?”

  “You’re a strong and healthy girl, Louisa,” I said. “And you are marrying a rich man who can afford the best doctors.”

  She gave me a hopeful little smile. “I hope you find someone who will love you soon, Sissy. I want so much for you to be happy.”

  “That would be nice,” I said. “But in the meantime, I am going to enjoy the challenges of
my new position.”

  “Is it far from London? You said you’ll be able to visit . . .”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll be close by, and I’ll let you know as soon as I have an address you can write to.”

  Fortunately, she dropped the subject, and we went around the flat, Louisa deciding if she wanted to take my father’s few remaining good pieces of furniture with her. There was an inlaid writing desk he had had made in India for my mother and had refused to part with. I told Louisa to take it. The rest of the items would be sold.

  “Please keep all the money. I shall be well provided for,” she said.

  I shook my head. “No, you take the money for your wedding dress. We do not need to be beholden to Billy’s family for everything. I shall be earning a good wage.”

  A smile flashed across her face, making me realize how very young she still was. “All right. I was worrying a little about my dress. And we shall choose yours as my maid of honour. Peacock blue, don’t you think? It would look so startling with your red hair.”

  We held hands and gazed at each other, both realizing that nothing in our lives would ever be the same again. Before we parted, I was formally introduced to her intended—a pleasant enough young man I had seen coming and going from his father’s shop, and clearly smitten with my sister, but of a manner and speech that my parents would not have considered suitable as a prospect for a son-in-law. On the way home, I tried to examine my feelings. How could I afford this snobbish judgement of my sister’s future husband when I was a servant? I was lower down the social scale than he, and yet my father had ingrained into us the belief that we belonged in the rarefied air of aristocrats. Would I have to accept that a lower-class husband was my lot someday? Louisa didn’t seem to notice his London accent or lack of vocabulary. And she was happy. That was all that mattered, I told myself firmly.

  On Saturday morning, a man came with a cart to take away the last remnants of my former home. They were sold, and on Monday morning, I moved into the palace. That sounds like a very grand thing to say. The reality was not quite as glamorous as this sounds. I was assigned a room of my own on the top floor. Quite spartan, decidedly chilly, with a narrow iron-framed bed, a white painted chest of drawers with a mirror over it and two hooks on the wall to hang up clothes, but at least I would have some privacy. I was fitted for my all-white uniform, a blouse and skirt with a big apron to cover me, and a pillbox hat under which all my hair had to be hidden. I was told firmly that the apron was to be changed the moment there was any stain on it. I was always to look immaculate, in case Her Majesty or one of her higher officials chose to pay a visit to the kitchens. I stood looking at myself in the mirror, a ghostlike apparition in my white uniform, and gave myself a brave little smile. “It’s going to be all right,” I said to myself. “I’m Helen Barton, and I’m a jolly good cook.”